


The Old Familiar Sting

by Perfica



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfica/pseuds/Perfica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for anna_luna’s ’ Valentine's Day Trade’ game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Familiar Sting

Rodney made an effort to be careful. Careful about the amount of time he and Sheppard spent together in public and careful about _calling_ him Sheppard in public (but the number of 'John's' that seemed to be slipping out of his mouth these days seemed to be on the rise).

Careful about looking, laughing, touching, talking about, talking to, interacting with Sheppard in an appropriate manner. Part of that was their natural reticence - neither of them were wont to display their hearts on their sleeves - and lingering looks, cutesy nicknames or private jokes was not part of their repertoire. Their relationship was built on a mutual enjoyment of put-downs, ill-timed pokes and cheesy movies accompanied by even cheesier snacks.

So for Rodney to wait in John's room for him to return from Earth was a big step. There were boundaries, and good friends (even very, very good friends that had sex with each other on a regular basis) respected boundaries. John didn't touch Rodney's wall of achievement (even though he'd been tempted on numerous occasions to add a moustache to Rodney's snarling face on the picture gifted to Rodney by Harmony); Rodney didn't pluck at John's guitar. John admired the picture of Rodney's cat and sat through hours of stories detailing its brilliance; Rodney admired the picture of John posing ecstatically with Evil Knievel and listened as John talked endlessly about his 'best summer ever.'

"Rodney?"

Rodney jumped on the spot, guiltily pulling his hand away from John's surfboard.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, the frown on his face indicating that he was pissed off, tired, had a headache or a combination of the three.

"Oh, ah, hi. I wasn't sure when you'd be back so I thought I'd just stop in and - "

"It's three o-clock in the morning."

"Really?" Rodney looked down at his watch. So it was.

John still looked wary, the straps of his bag clenched tightly in one hand.

"I brought you some dinner," Rodney said, pointing at John's desk. "I wasn't sure if you'd have time to get something at the SGC. It's all good stuff; doesn't need to be reheated."

"I'm not hungry," John said, dropping the bag to the floor. He kicked off his boots, rummaged through his closet, pulled back with a handful of clothes and strode into the bathroom. A few seconds later, the shower started.

"Well," Rodney said to the empty room. "That went well."

While he tried to decide whether he should stay (he so should! They obviously had a relationship and John _had_ to be hurting so it was Rodney's duty to help him through the pain) or go (he absolutely should! He and John didn't do 'feelings' and now wasn't a good time to start), he picked at John's dinner. The grapes were firm but slightly sour; the bread of the sandwich triangles still soft. He'd forgotten about dinner for himself - too worried about what was happening on Earth with John and his family (and Ronon had, unfortunately, been his usual non-talkative self), too worried about whether or not the modifications he'd made to the shield on Planet Precocious Kids were going to stick, too worried about Wraith and Replicators and energy needs and his rapidly increasing heartbeat and his high blood pressure and everything in general.

A cloud of steam followed John out of the bathroom. Rodney had a sandwich in one hand (with only one bite missing) and a thermos in the other. John, wearing only a pair of boxers and a towel around his neck, lowered the lights in the room to their lowest dim setting, pulled back the covers of the bed, viciously toweled his wet hair one more time, threw the towel into a corner of the room and collapsed onto the bed. With a sigh, he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders and closed his eyes.

Rodney cleared his throat. Wow. This was uncomfortable. He carefully put the thermos down and looked longingly at the sandwich but returned it to its tray.

"Well, good night then," he whispered, making his way to the door.

"Rodney," John said, aggrieved. "Get over here."

A sudden sharpness filled Rodney's chest. Was this the beginning of a heart attack?

John looked at him with half-closed eyes. "Get into bed."

Rodney, being a clever man who knew how to adapt to changing situations, quickly peeled off his boots and clothes until he too was under the blankets, clad in a ratty T-shirt and brightly-coloured boxers. He twisted and turned, trying not to take up too much room until John, muttering swear words under his breath, arranged them both to his liking. Rodney ended up flat on his back (which wasn't at all comfortable but could be endured) with John's face smushed tightly against his neck. One of Rodney's hands ended up twined in the thick hair of John's nape; one of John's clutched possessively at Rodney's hip.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Rodney whispered. _This_ , at least, was normal. This casual proximity in bed, heads close as the darkness of the night lowered their voices and made even the most mundane of conversations seem like secrets. Their eyes would pick up stray moonbeams and stand out in the shadows, shining. Their fingers would clasp and rest comfortably on one of their stomachs, holding hands in private because they couldn't do it in public. It was Rodney's most favourite thing ever.

"I know," John whispered back, the register of his voice higher than usual. He cleared his throat. "I know; there's nothing to say because he's dead. No point in talking about any fucking thing because he's not around to fucking hear it and I would never have said a fucking thing to him if he was alive."

"John - "

John's body froze, clenched then bucked in Rodney's embrace. The warmth of John's breath against Rodney's neck changed into a different sort of warmth - fluid, copious, dripping.

"You can tell me," Rodney said, pressing a kiss against John's temple. John took several panting, pained breaths.

Rodney held him close and let John cry; didn't say a word when his T-shirt became uncomfortably damp along the collar and on his chest, didn't say a word when John's hold on his ribs tightened almost to the point of pain, didn't say a word while John said everything to his father that he wished he could have said while he'd still been alive to hear it.

Rodney listened, and let silent tears of sympathy leak from the corners of his eyes while he played witness to John's regret. He couldn't fix the problem but _this_ , at least, he could do.


End file.
